296 AC
The skies of Essos stretched wide and endless above Aemon Targaryen as Ancalagon soared through the clouds, his massive wings cutting through the air with ease. The wind rushed past Aemon's face, cool and sharp, a stark contrast to the humid heat of Slaver's Bay. Below him, the vast cities and landscapes of Essos unfolded like a living map, each one a testament to the rise and fall of empires.
But Aemon's mind was fixed on the North, on the snow-covered lands of Winterfell, and the man who had raised him—Ned Stark. Yet, as he journeyed northward, he allowed himself to witness the world that lay between him and his destination.
His first stop was Volantis.
The Flames of Volantis
Volantis, the oldest of the Free Cities, was a spectacle unlike any other. Its black walls, made of fused Valyrian stone, loomed high and imposing, remnants of a bygone empire. The city sprawled along both banks of the Rhoyne, connected by the mighty Long Bridge, a bustling hub of life, trade, and intrigue.
Aemon descended upon the city just outside its southern gates, his arrival causing a stir among the citizens. The sight of Ancalagon sent waves of fear and awe through the streets, but no one dared oppose him. The dragon's shadow was enough to ensure obedience.
Wearing a simple cloak over his armor, Aemon ventured into the city, leaving Ancalagon perched on the cliffs overlooking the Rhoyne. He walked through the markets and narrow streets, absorbing the city's rich history. The Temple of the Lord of Light stood tall, its flames dancing in the eternal brazier, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the red-robed priests and priestesses who whispered of prophecy and fire.
One of the priests, a tall, gaunt man with eyes like embers, approached Aemon as if recognizing something within him.
"The blood of the dragon," the priest murmured, his voice reverent. "You are the flame reborn."
Aemon regarded him with cool detachment. "I am Aemon Targaryen."
The priest bowed deeply. "The flames have foretold your coming. Volantis stands ready to serve the true dragon."
Aemon accepted the priest's words with a nod but made no promises. He had no intention of aligning himself with the zealots of the Red Temple, but their reverence served his purposes for now.
As he wandered through the city, Aemon marveled at the remnants of Valyrian culture embedded in Volantis' architecture and customs. The sight of the ancient Valyrian roads, the black stone structures, and the symbols of a lost empire stirred something deep within him—a connection to a past he had only recently begun to embrace.
But Volantis, with all its beauty and history, was not his destination.
After a few days, Aemon mounted Ancalagon and took to the skies once more, his path leading him to the island paradise of Lys.
The Pleasures of Lys
Lys was a city of unparalleled beauty, known for its lush gardens, crystal-clear waters, and the famed Lysene pleasure houses. But Aemon was not drawn to the island for its carnal offerings. He sought something more—a foothold, a retreat, a place that could serve as a strategic asset in his growing empire.
Upon his arrival, the rulers of Lys welcomed him with open arms, eager to curry favor with the powerful dragonlord. They offered him gifts—gold, jewels, and most notably, a luxurious estate nestled along the coast, complete with sprawling gardens and private beaches.
But the most intriguing gift came in the form of slaves—virgin girls of unparalleled beauty, chosen from the finest pleasure houses. Their skin was as smooth as silk, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe as they were presented to Aemon.
Aemon accepted the gifts without hesitation. The estate would serve as a perfect retreat, and the girls… they would have a new purpose.
In the privacy of his new home, Aemon took the slaves as his own, their innocence claimed under the shadow of the dragon. But he did not see them as mere objects of pleasure. Instead, he elevated their status, declaring them maids of House Targaryen. They were to serve not as slaves, but as loyal attendants, bound to his house and his legacy.
Before departing Lys, Aemon penned a letter to Missandei, instructing her to send a contingent of Unsullied to secure the estate. The house in Lys would remain a sanctuary, a symbol of his influence stretching even to the most hedonistic corners of Essos.
With his affairs in Lys settled, Aemon mounted Ancalagon once more, his sights set on Pentos. But as he neared the city's outskirts, a familiar feeling stirred within him—a sense of unfinished business. He had no desire to confront Illyrio Mopatis or delve into the political webs of Pentos just yet.
Instead, he veered northward, toward the mysterious city of Braavos.
The Shadows of Braavos
Braavos, the city of canals and secrets, was a stark contrast to the opulence of Lys and the ancient grandeur of Volantis. Hidden behind the Titan of Braavos, the city was a labyrinth of waterways and narrow streets, its people a blend of merchants, mercenaries, and mystics.
Aemon descended upon the outskirts of the city, leaving Ancalagon hidden in the nearby mountains. Braavos was a city of intrigue and discretion—a place where power was wielded in shadows rather than in open conquest.
Disguised in simple clothing, Aemon navigated the streets of Braavos, his eyes sharp and observant. He visited the famed House of Black and White, the temple of the Faceless Men, though he kept his distance, wary of attracting their attention. The Iron Bank loomed as a symbol of unyielding power, its influence reaching across continents.
But it was the people of Braavos that intrigued Aemon the most. Here, he saw a melting pot of cultures and histories, a city that had thrived without the need for dragons or kings. It was a testament to the power of independence and resilience—qualities Aemon both admired and intended to challenge when the time came.
After a few days in Braavos, Aemon felt the pull of his true destination once more. The North called to him, its icy winds whispering of home, of family, of destiny.
Mounting Ancalagon one final time, Aemon turned his gaze westward, toward Westeros, toward Winterfell.
His journey was far from over, but with each city, each step, he felt himself drawing closer to the answers he sought.
The North awaited.